Department 19, The Rising, and Battle Lines

by Will Hill

  His mum, heavily pregnant with him, was leaning back on the bonnet of the dark blue BMW he remembered from when he was very young, a wide smile on her face. The sun was shining from outside the frame, illuminating a bright green row of trees beyond the car, casting the dark silhouette of his dad across the bottom of the photo. The shadow’s hand was raised to its face, holding the camera that had recorded the moment.

  She looks so happy, Jamie thought, then straightened up and turned back to his mum, as he realised she had said something he hadn’t heard.

  “What was that, Mum?” he asked, and she rolled her eyes.

  “I was saying that Henry came down to see me today,” she said. “Did he tell you?”

  “Henry?” replied Jamie. “Who’s Henry?”

  “Henry Seward,” answered Marie, the look on her face suggesting that it should have been obvious.

  “Admiral Seward?” asked Jamie, incredulous. “My commanding officer? Is that who you mean?”

  “Of course that’s who I mean, Jamie,” replied Marie. A look of concern had emerged on her face. “Is something wrong?”

  No, nothing wrong. Definitely nothing weird about my boss hanging out with my mum in her cell. Not at all.

  “I suppose not,” said Jamie. “What did he want?”

  “He didn’t want anything. He just came down to say hello. He normally pops down about once a week.”

  “Once a week? Like, every week?”

  “I’ve upset you,” said Marie, a look of slight panic on her face. The possibility of her son stopping coming to see her was never far from her mind, and was the thing she was most afraid of. “Can we talk about something else?”

  Jamie was still attempting to stretch his head round the concept of his mother and Admiral Seward socialising, but he let it go when he heard the nervousness in his mother’s voice. He took a deep breath.

  “Of course we can, Mum,” he said. “What do you want to talk about?”

  Marie smiled a broad smile of relief, and floated over on to her bed, apparently so relieved she had avoided a fight with her son that she didn’t even realise she was using her vampire abilities in front of him.

  “Tell me where you went this evening,” she said, settling down on the lilac bedding. “I worry about you, out there with all those monsters. Tell me what you were doing.”

  Jamie crossed to the rear of the cell, flopped down on to the battered sofa and began to tell his mother about his day.

  7

  VALENTIN RECEIVES A VISITOR

  CENTRAL PARK WEST AND WEST EIGHTY-FIFTH STREET NEW YORK, USA

  Valentin Rusmanov stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of his study, on the top floor of the Upper West Side mansion he had lived in since its completion in 1895. His ownership of the grand, stately building was, like most aspects of his life, a closely guarded secret.

  Throughout the twentieth century, his long existence had required him to take certain steps to avoid attention, including the formation of a number of shell companies to administer his assets. His name appeared nowhere on any document relating to the building and, from the outside, it seemed little different to the other grand apartment buildings that faced Central Park from the west.

  It was most similar in design to the Dakota, thirteen blocks to the south, but whereas that famous landmark had been originally designed as sixty-five individual residences, Valentin’s building was a single, almost obscenely spacious residence, arranged over seven vast floors, the majority of which were filled with the accumulated spoils of more than four centuries of wealth and influence. The seventh floor contained the suite of rooms in which Valentin slept, to which entrance was expressly forbidden without invitation. The study he was now standing in occupied the north-east corner of the seventh floor, from which the view of the park was nothing short of spectacular.

  Valentin looked down at the wide-open space, an oasis of dark corners and shadows amid the blinding lights of Manhattan. The last of the joggers were making their way to the exits, leaving behind them the teenage couples, junkies, muggers and homeless men and women that made up the park’s nocturnal population. He watched them, observing their small lives from high above without objection or condemnation. He had never felt disgust, or anger, when he looked at ordinary humans; he had always left such sentiments to his brothers, and to his former master.

  Valentin’s nose twitched, and a second later his face curdled into a grimace of disgust. He turned away from the window, flew swiftly across his study and landed gracefully in the blue leather armchair that sat behind his wide, dark wood desk. He leant back in the chair, staring expectantly at the door on the other side of the room. A moment later there was a polite knock, and the door slid open just wide enough for Valentin’s butler, a skeletal figure in exquisite evening wear, to slip through the gap and into the study.

  Lamberton had entered service in the vampire’s house in 1901 and immediately demonstrated both impeccable professional ability, and an admirable willingness to ignore the horrors that routinely took place beneath his master’s roof; he had served Valentin for forty years as a human, and almost seventy more as a vampire.

  His turning had been Lamberton’s idea; although Valentin had promised the butler that no harm would come to him while in his employ, a promise the ancient vampire had kept with great dedication, Lamberton had eventually been forced to confront his master with the problem of his advancing years.

  After discussing the matter over half a case of 1921 Château Latour, Valentin had reluctantly agreed that no other solution seemed acceptable and, after checking for a final time whether the butler was sure, had bitten Lamberton’s throat with the tenderness of a lover, allowing the barest minimum of blood to escape. He had then flown out into the New York night and found a young nurse from Oklahoma who was about to ship out to the battlefields of Europe. He had brought her home and given her to Lamberton, when the turn was complete and the hunger gripped him for the first time. Once the girl was spent, the butler thanked his master, and returned immediately to his duties, duties he had continued to discharge admirably ever since.

  Lamberton was now standing silently by the study door, waiting to be acknowledged before he spoke. When Valentin nodded in his direction, he spoke five words that his master had hoped never to hear.

  “Your brother is here, sir.”

  Valentin swore in Wallachian, his eyes flashing momentarily red. Then he regarded Lamberton, and sighed deeply.

  “Show him in,” he said.

  The door was flung wide, and Valeri Rusmanov strode into the study, as Lamberton exited silently. The oldest of the three Rusmanov brothers was wearing simple clothing: a black tunic, heavy woollen trousers and leather boots, and his grey greatcoat. He stopped halfway across the room, and looked around, taking in the opulence of his surroundings with obvious distaste.

  Ridiculous old fool, thought Valentin, from behind his desk. He thinks he’s still a general, commanding troops on a battlefield. Pathetic.

  Valentin opened a beautifully carved wooden box and withdrew a red cigarette from the velvet-lined interior. The cigarette contained Turkish tobacco laced liberally with Bliss, the heady mixture of heroin and blood to which he had become mildly addicted over the last three decades. He applied the flame from a wooden match to the tip of the cigarette, then leant back in his chair as Valeri, who had still not spoken since entering the study, paused in front of a shelf containing a glass tank in which three basketballs were floating in a clear solution.

  “What do you call this?” asked Valeri, his tone gruff and unfriendly.

  “I don’t call it anything,” replied Valentin, forcing himself to remain polite. “The artist called it Three Ball 50/50 Tank. It’s Jeff Koons.”

  “And this is art, is it?”

  “I would say so.”

  Valeri turned away from the shelf, waving a hand dismissively at its contents. He crossed the study in three long strides and stood before Valentin’s desk, his nose wrinkling at
the smell of the smoke from the cigarette in his brother’s hand.

  “Is that Bliss?” he asked, spitting out the last word.

  “Why, yes it is,” replied Valentin, opening the box again. “Would you care for one?”

  Valeri stared coldly at him.

  “Do you have no shame whatsoever?” he asked.

  Valentin smiled, drew deeply on his cigarette and exhaled. The smoke floated up into the air in a thick cloud, enveloping Valeri’s head as it dispersed.

  “Apparently not,” he said, lightly.

  The two brothers faced each other for a long moment, until eventually Valeri spoke again.

  “Our brother is dead,” he said. There was no emotion in his voice.

  “I know,” replied Valentin. “He has been dead for more than three months.”

  “You don’t seem upset by the news.”

  “Are you?”

  Valeri drew himself up, and glared at his brother.

  “Alexandru and I differed on a great number of matters,” he said, slowly. “But he was still blood, still our blood. And now he’s gone.”

  “That’s right, he’s gone. But we’re still here. Isn’t life marvellous?”

  Valeri grunted, a deep, throaty sound that Valentin thought might be what passed for his brother laughing.

  “You call this living?” Valeri asked. “Surrounded by lackeys and boot-lickers, in this castle of decadence?”

  “Yes,” replied Valentin, and for the first time he failed to keep the steel from his tone. “I do. I also remember the size of your domestic staff in Wallachia, Valeri. There were times when I believe it numbered in the hundreds.”

  Valeri stiffened.

  “I was a different man in those days,” he replied.

  You were actually a man, thought Valentin. That was certainly different.

  Valentin got up from behind his desk and walked back to the window that overlooked the park. He motioned for Valeri to join him, and after a long pause, with a look of great reluctance on his lined face, the elder Rusmanov did so. Valeri stood beside his younger brother, and looked out at the towering lights of Manhattan.

  “Have you ever been to New York before?” asked Valentin.

  “Never,” replied Valeri, grimacing. “Until fifteen minutes ago I had never set foot in this sordid place, and I would have preferred for that to remain the case.”

  “Of course you would. Yours are the dark open spaces, the wilderness of our youth. You are a creature of tradition, Valeri. I don’t criticise you for it; I’m merely stating the facts. But mine? Mine are the bright lights, the crowded streets, the noise and the bustle and the life of the city. An American writer once wrote that, ‘One belongs to New York instantly, one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years.’ Well, I’ve been here for more than a century.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Valentin?”

  The younger vampire sighed, and regarded his brother with a pitying look.

  “You always were so literal. Never mind. I assume you have come with word from your master?”

  “Our master,” said Valeri, his voice like ice.

  “Of course. Our master. I apologise.”

  But Valentin didn’t look sorry, not in the slightest. A half-smile played across his lips, causing anger to surge through his older brother. Valeri pushed it down as far as he was able, and focused on the order he had been given.

  “He calls you home, Valentin. Your life belongs to him, as it always has, and he calls you home.”

  Valentin bared his teeth.

  “My life is my own,” he hissed. “Do you hear me?”

  Red spilled into the corners of Valeri’s eyes. He took his hands from where they had been crossed behind his back, and let them dangle loosely at his sides.

  “I disagree,” he said. “As I am confident our master will too.”

  The two brothers stared at each other, violence pregnant in the still air of the study. Then Valeri smiled broadly, raising his hands in mock placation.

  “Enough, brother,” he said. “I have no time for posturing, or children’s games. I must leave, with or without you. Will you refuse the call of our master, to whom you owe this gilded cage you call a life? Or will you honour him, as you swore you always would, and do your duty now he has returned to us?”

  Valentin looked at his brother, and favoured him with a smile of his own.

  “Of course I will,” he replied. “I will need two days to set my affairs in order, then I’ll return home like the dutiful lapdog.”

  “Your affairs are trivia,” replied Valeri. “You are to accompany me tonight.”

  “In which case, I would remind you of two things,” said Valentin, his smile still in place. “Firstly, that you are a guest in my home. And secondly, that I have not been afraid of you for more than five hundred years now.”

  Valeri took half a step forward, a dangerous look on his face.

  “Is that a fact, brother?” he asked, his voice little more than a whisper.

  “It is,” replied Valentin. “A fact that leaves you with two options. You can allow me to conclude my trivia as I see fit, after which I will return home, as I promised. Or you can try to remove me from this house by force, which will result in one of us explaining to your master why we have destroyed the other. So what’s it going to be, brother?”

  90 DAYS TILL ZERO HOUR

  8

  THE BIG LEAGUES

  Jamie swung his legs out from under his bedding and sat on the edge of his mattress, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms.

  He had headed straight to his quarters after leaving the detention level, his mind full of relief and his heart heavy with guilt. He always felt bad after seeing his mother; the sight of her in her cell was painful, and filled him with feelings of impotence. But his visits were the only things that she looked forward to, and he would not dream of denying her them. When Alexandru had taken her, he had feared, in his darkest moments, that he was never going to see her again, never going to get the chance to make it up to her, to make amends for being such a bad son. He was not going to fall back into his old pattern of complacency, of taking her for granted, even if the sight of her in her cell made his heart ache and his skin tingle with helpless anger.

  She needs me. That’s all that matters. And I’m not going to let her down.

  The electric clock on his bedside table read 8:55. Jamie hauled himself to his feet and raised his arms above his head, feeling the muscles creak and tremble as they stretched. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but thoughts of his mother refused to leave him. He grabbed his towel, walked to the shower block at the centre of Level B and climbed into one of the stalls, hoping that the relentless drumming of the water would empty his mind, giving him a few minutes of peace.

  Dried and dressed, Jamie sat down at his desk and attempted to review the minutes of the first Zero Hour Task Force meeting. He read the dry, colourless text of the report from start to finish, but realised he was looking at the shapes of the letters rather than taking any sense from the words, and pushed the folder aside. He looked at his watch, and saw that it was time to make his way to the Ops Room.

  The prospect filled him with little excitement; the pride he had felt when Admiral Seward summoned him to his office and told him that he was being appointed to the Department’s most highly classified Task Force had been short-lived. The Director had immediately made it clear to him that he was only being involved because of his first-hand experience with Alexandru Rusmanov, and that he would be largely expected to speak when he was spoken to. Seward had also warned him that his presence on the Task Force was likely to be unpopular with the more experienced Operators, and this had proven to be an understatement.

  Jamie was the second person to arrive for the meeting.

  Major Paul Turner glanced up at him as he stepped through the door, then returned his attention to a sheaf of papers splayed across the table before him. Jamie considered saying hello, then dec
ided against it. The Security Officer, who had succeeded the late Thomas Morris in the post, had been among the small group of Operators who had arrived on Lindisfarne after Jamie had destroyed Alexandru Rusmanov. Although they had been too late to help, to prevent the loss of Frankenstein or the turning of his mother, Jamie would always be grateful that they had tried. The reason he held his tongue was very simple: Paul Turner scared the hell out of him.

  There never seemed to be anything behind the Major’s eyes, no emotion, or empathy. Since Lindisfarne, Jamie had been astonished to learn that Turner was married to Caroline Seward, a union that made him Admiral Seward’s brother-in-law. They had a son called Shaun, who was himself a Blacklight Operator, and this Jamie found almost impossible to believe; Turner appeared to him more like a robot than a loving husband and a father.

  I can’t picture him having dinner with his wife and asking her about her day, or taking his son aside and giving him advice, he thought. I just can’t see it.

  Jamie took the seat opposite Turner, and silently waited for the rest of the Zero Hour Task Force to arrive. Less than a minute later the door to the Ops Room opened, and Operators began to file in and sit down.

  Henry Seward took the seat at the head of the table, the Director of Department 19 nodding briefly in Jamie’s direction as he did so, then leaning over and engaging in conversation with Paul Turner at a volume too low for Jamie to hear.

  Two Operators that Jamie had met for the first time at the previous meeting, men in their early thirties who represented the Science and Intelligence Divisions of Blacklight, walked through the door, deep in conversation, and sat down across from him. Neither so much as glanced in his direction; both had made it abundantly clear that they opposed his presence on the Task Force, and had clearly not changed their minds since the first meeting. Jamie was trying to make sure that the anger he could feel bubbling up in his chest didn’t show on his face, when the door opened again, and Jack Williams walked in.